All Night Long (19 page)

She gestured for the crew to follow her into the house's grand foyer, which featured floor-to-ceiling mirrors on opposite walls, white-on-white decor, and a plush white faux-fur rug. The kids, the colonel, and Susan hadn't yet arrived. Or else the colonel had made a snap decision to take them all away to San Diego.

“So how do you feel now, seeing your home again?”

“I'm just glad to be with my kids,” Platinum demurred. “And, you know, to have my pool, and my wardrobe, and food prepared by my a-ma-zing chef, Mrs. Cleveland! Mrs. Cleveland, take a bow!”

The cook, who had poked her head around a corner to glance at the new arrivals, took an awkward bow and then scuttled back to the kitchen. Platinum turned back to the reporter. “Of course, you simply
must
join us for dinner. There's nothing like a good old-fashioned family meal at my house! But let me give you the tour first.”

A half hour later, after a
Cribs
-style tour of the white-on-white master bedroom, the kids' rooms, the home studio, the gym, and the lavish gardens filled with gardenias, jasmine, and other fragrant white flowers, Platinum made good on her offer. She ushered the charmed MTV crew into the dining room—same white-on-white design—where an enormous buffet table groaned under the weight of a welcome-home feast worthy of, well, an international celebrity. Bruce, Serenity, and Sid were there now too, and Platinum made the appropriate introductions.

“I made all your favorites,” Mrs. Cleveland announced proudly. “Grilled baby squid in black-bean sauce, nori rolls, kalamata angel hair with baby artichokes, sweet potato fries, beef tenderloin stuffed with blue crab, pancetta-wrapped asparagus with lemon hollandaise, tuna tartar with Ethiopian herbs, Thai coconut-milk soup with tiger shrimp, an all-white root vegetable gratin, and for dessert, baked Alaska with coffee ice cream and Ghirardelli fudge. Oh, and Wolfgang dropped by with some lobster rolls and a dulce de leche cheesecake. He sends his love.”

“Holy crap, Mrs. Cleveland, you have outdone yourself. But no way we can eat all this. Call the women's shelter downtown and see if we can send over our leftovers.” Platinum collapsed dramatically into a white leather armchair at the head of the table and popped a piece of sushi into her mouth.

“I already did call, but they're getting food from some CAA party tonight. I'll see what else I can do.”

“So Platinum, what's next on your professional agenda?” the reporter asked through a mouthful of garlic smashed potatoes
with white truffle butter. Kiley noted that her boss had poured herself a champagne flute of sparkling juice, not champagne. Was this a sign of change?

“Well, obviously, my first priority is to reacquaint myself with my beautiful children.” Platinum was deliberately low-key. She beamed at her kids, and they beamed right back. “But after that, I'm not going back into the studio for a while.”

“You're not?” The MTV reporter was surprised.

“Hell no. I'm branching out. Into literature.”

“The next Rimbaud?”

“The next Dr. Goddamn Seuss. I'm writing a children's book. All about a goose being falsely accused of a crime, and the vindication of justice. A platinum goose. I started it in detention.”

Okay. This was genius.

“But that won't happen until I've had a to-die-for guava-pineapple facial at LeSpa.”

“I don't want to hear about her and her damn facials!” Kiley heard the colonel's familiar voice thunder in the hallway outside the kitchen.

Platinum grinned. “Well, well, well, if it isn't Private Ryan himself. May I ask what the hell you're doing in my house?”

Oh yeah. Her boss was back. Sharp-eyed, loud-voiced, and a hundred percent tact-free. But the colonel didn't budge an inch. Meanwhile, the reporter and the camera dude grinned at each other. This was obviously the kind of footage they'd been hoping for.

“I'm here to try and talk some sense into you. You may have fooled the court, but you and I both know you don't know the first thing about responsible parenting. Therefore, I am here to
suggest that you let me keep doing what I've been doing during your absence. Providing a strict, moral environment for your children.”

Whoa. Kiley watched the storm break over her boss's lovely face. Nobody told Platinum what to do, especially in her own home. Especially not a poker-up-the-yahooligan like her brother-in-law. Kiley braced for the inevitable explosion. But it never came. Instead, Platinum stood up, smoothed her cascading hair into place, and took a couple of steps toward her sister and the colonel.

“Susan, you're my sister. Feel free to hang out as long as you want. Colonel, I no longer require your assistance. So I will kindly ask you to go.” She looked at her watch. “By 1300 hours. That's in five minutes.” Platinum grinned her familiar mischievous grin. “And turn in your keys and your weapon on the way out and don't let the door hit you in the ass. You're getting a dishonorable discharge.”

“Just talk to them, okay?” Karen pleaded.

Lydia thumbed through a few pages in the
Harper's Bazaar
she'd gleaned from the mail pile on the counter and didn't respond.

Like any demanding chore, it had to be done sooner or later. It would mean sitting Jimmy and Martina down, buttering them up with all the high-octane, sugary snacks they could stomach— there were some advantages to not having Anya around—and confessing to them both why she was the world's biggest fool-lowlife-lying-sumbitch. Or words to that effect.

Well, confessing to Martina. Jimmy already knew why. For him, it would be a confirmation.

“All right. How about after Billy takes Jimmy to the skate park down in Venice?” Lydia sipped from her nonalcoholic piña colada smoothie. At least the new morning cook made superb breakfast beverages.

Before she could respond any further, the kids stampeded into the kitchen.

“Hi guys! You want something to eat? I can get Juanita to fix up some poached eggs, or bowls of cereal with real milk …,” Lydia said as the kids pulled two stools to the island counter. What did the kids know? And when did they know about it? How much info had Jimmy shared with Martina?

Quite a bit. Martina looked right at her with sad eyes. “Is the reason that Billy's so mad at you because you cheated on him with the golf pro?”

Ouch. Best to treat it like a flesh wound with an old bandage on it. One fierce tug, bleeding be damned.

She looked right at her cousin. “Yes, Martina. And then I lied to him about it. And he found out and he dumped me. I'm a jerk and I feel like swamp scum. Let it be a lesson for you.”

The kids just stared at her with cold eyes.

“Will you at least acknowledge that you heard me? It's hard to have a conversation if I'm the only one talking.”

Lydia snapped her fingers in the air. Nothing. Okay.

“But didn't you tell us that you should be honest with somebody if you really like them?” Martina asked, her voice small.

“I did, but—”

“You know what that makes you?” Jimmy scowled. “You know what it's called when you tell somebody one thing and do the opposite? It's called a hypocrite.”

Lydia sighed. At least the kid's vocabulary was on track. “Why don't we all go out for ice cream this afternoon, and we can talk about it some more? That'll be fun, right?”

Martina's eyebrows lifted into a look that could have passed for hopeful, but the reaction from Jimmy was quite different. He
merely slid off his stool and stepped out of the kitchen. A moment later, his sister followed him. Great. Both kids were official card-carrying members of the I-hate-Lydia-Chandler fan club. And why not? After all, it was the second major breakup they'd been forced to watch without any say in the last two weeks. And while they knew better than to use their mom—who was off in New York for the U.S. Open—as a punching bag, their nanny cousin wasn't nearly so off-limits.

“Excuse me, Mom,” she told her mother. “I'm out of here.”

“I don't blame you. Don't worry. It'll pass.”

“I'm not so sure.”

Lydia got up from the table and moved into the hallway, gliding a finger along some of the mansion's featured mementos: the photo of Kat and Anya shaking hands at the French Open back when they were competitors; the teak totemic carving that had been a gift from Karen for their fifth anniversary; the weird gargoyle Anya had brought back from a trip to Russia. The moms did have a certain sense of style, but Lydia couldn't imagine accumulating so much stuff with anybody.

The doorbell rang. Lydia heard Jimmy run to answer it. She knew who it was and drifted toward the door like a condemned person who knew there was no choice but to stagger to the gallows. Billy was dressed for a morning with Jimmy at the skate park, in a Sonic Youth T-shirt and torn jeans.

“Hi,” she tried.

“Yo.”

It didn't take a doctorate in behavioral psychology to understand that Billy also wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. He rearranged invisible pebbles on the floor with his Vans sneakers. He clamped his hands beneath his elbows. His eyes wandered
from five different knickknacks in five seconds: the antique umbrella stand, the walnut coffee table, the pair of porcelain pigeons, the Tiffany lampshade, the painting by Gustav Klimt. Anywhere to keep from looking at Lydia.

Fair enough. She couldn't do a thing if he wanted to react by smoldering. But seeing him so agitated wasn't easy, especially since it was essentially her fault.

Thankfully, Jimmy soon reappeared with his skateboard. Even before Lydia could unglue her tongue from the bottom of her mouth to wish them a nice time at the park, the guys were on their way. The only acknowledgment of Lydia's presence was the extra force with which Jimmy shut the door on his way out.

“It'll be okay.” Lydia heard her mother's voice behind her. “Kind of reminds me of accidentally violating an Amarakaire taboo. Even
they
eventually got over a grudge. Those boys will too.”

If her mom thought that her words would be comforting, she was wrong. But Lydia acknowledged the attempt. “Thanks, Mom. But if they had a million other people they could turn to, the Amas would've kept on grudging. I might get Jimmy back. He kind of needs me. Billy? He's gone for good.”

“I wish I could help, sweetie,” Karen said. “But I know something that might make you feel better.” She handed Lydia a bulging envelope addressed to her; the return address was Bel Air High School. “This came in the mail yesterday.”

“Don't tell me. They're trying to send me more goofy shirts.” Lydia ran a finger under the flap and looked at the mailing from her new high school. Inside were more papers, packets, pamphlets,
and registration materials than she cared to see. It was like a treasure trove of Ama toilet paper.

“Do they really expect me to read all this?” Lydia asked.

Karen smiled widely. “No, honey. They expect you to fill it out.”

Back in the Amazon, Lydia had been schooled with her own set of standards, and was answerable only to her mother and father. English literature applied equally to the rare novels that made their way upriver and the air-dropped magazines she craved. Study about botany meant talking about biochemistry, since the shaman's herbs were at least as potent as conventional medications. The simple mathematics of Ama bartering doubled as anthropology and tripled as home economics. And pretty much all “core subjects” included what Bel Air High School would have parsed out as physical education.

“What's the big deal? I go to their school, they teach me what they want, and the rest is just details. Can't you fill this out for me?”

Karen laughed. “It's not as simple as that. You're going to have to start thinking about SATs, ACTs, and college applications.”

“How about the track team?”

Her mother looked at her blankly.

“Bad joke.” Lydia rubbed a point of tension that was developing between her eyebrows. She thought again how simple life was in the rain forest. You were born. You lived. You hunted. You died.

“Tell you what. Jimmy will be with Billy until the afternoon. Martina's about to go to the club with Faith. I was listening to the radio,” her mother said, “and KLOS says it's going to be beautiful. I could use a change of venue. Whaddaya say?”

Lydia smiled wanly. “Why not?”

Since Lydia didn't have a driver's license, and Karen's had expired years ago, X shuttled them to an outdoor restaurant at the corner of Sunset Plaza and Sunset Boulevard, a place called Café Med. It offered fine Italian cuisine as easy on the eyes as on the palate. The imported-from-Rome waitstaff and the imported-from-across-the-pond Eurotrash clientele were easy on the eyes, too. Not that Lydia was back in the market after Billy's have-a-nice-life. But it never hurt to look.

They sat under the awning of the shaded patio. Almost immediately, Lydia spotted a trio of soap opera stars from
The Bold and the Beautiful
, and two members of the Decemberists, but knew that stargazing was a concept lost to her mother outside of the night sky.

Karen marveled at the menu. “I remember this. Having options. We've eaten a lot of monkey and turtle meat lately. The peacock bass haven't been biting this summer. The river is too high.”